Revenge of the Barbary Ghost (23 page)

How could he convince her to marry him? What if she was the only woman in England with whom he could find happiness, and she adamantly refused his offer? It was unthinkable. Even worse, what if she married someone else? All hope of winning her would then be dead. He found himself rambling about it all to Abraham Goldsmith, who admirably listened without comment.

“She’s damnably independent,” Darkefell finally grumbled. “Why can’t she be a little more … well …” He trailed off and sighed.

“A little more
less
herself?”

“Ridiculous, of course. I take your point.” Darkefell sighed and stuck his booted feet out in front of him.

“I will not belabor it, my lord,” the man said. “You will have to keep doing what you are doing. If you cannot capture her by being yourself, then you will never catch her by being anything else.”

Darkefell stood and stretched. A carriage drove up to the post-house inn and the magistrate, Mr. Twynam, got down. The moment he caught sight of Darkefell, he beckoned him, so the marquess politely took his leave of Abraham Goldsmith and strolled across the green.

“Just the gentleman I came here looking for,” Twynam said. “I have been out to the regimental quarters near St. Ives, my lord, and they’ve made some serious charges.”

“Who exactly are ‘they,’ Mr. Twynam?”

“Some of the officers who witnessed your attack on Captain St. James.” Twynam examined Darkefell’s face. “They claim that the attack was unprovoked, that you flung yourself at St. James when he was not ready, shouting that you’d kill him. What say you to that?”

Darkefell was taken aback. “I would say that you have two choices: either I did what they claim, or I had provocation enough.”

“If I am to believe the latter, sir, it would be best for me to know what was said, so I can not only judge the gravity of such an affront to the lady, but also combat the military officers’ claims that there was no insult from St. James.”

Darkefell sighed and looked off, down the long high street of St. Wyllow to the ocean. It was turbulent, dark gray with white caps, mirroring the gray sky and white clouds scudding across the expanse. “Mr. Twynam,” he said, with deliberation, meeting that man’s gaze, “I will never divulge to another soul what was said about Lady Anne. I don’t think it’s necessary, since there were a half dozen men there who heard it. Let one of them repeat what St. James said, for I never will.”

“My lord, I have learned that you followed Lady Anne here from your home in Yorkshire. I believe you wish to marry her, and that leads me to wonder if, as she was often in the company of Captain St. James, and the two had a friendship of long standing, he may have had similar aspirations to her hand. Perhaps you felt it necessary to rid yourself of a serious rival? I would suggest you do yourself the favor of telling me what was said that caused you to react so very violently.”

“No.”

“Why not? It cannot harm the lady, my lord, for I will swear to you it will not be repeated by me.”

“I don’t think it necessary that you know exactly what was said. It is sufficient to say that among men, sir, comments about ladies are often blunt, rude and sometimes crude. But I expect that if you overheard something that disparaged a lady with whom you were connected—your wife, or a daughter—you would launch yourself at the man who said it and beat him to a pulp. St. James is fortunate that I did nothing more than bloody his nose and give him a black eye and swollen lip.”

Twynam took in a long breath and patted his paunch, his expression thoughtful. “You do realize, though, my lord, that I must then count you among those I suspect of murdering Captain St. James.”

“I understand, but I did not do it.”

“Can you tell me unequivocally where you were the night he was killed and do you have some proof?”

Darkefell smiled. That would hardly help. Telling the magistrate that he was down on the beach rescuing Johnny Quintrell from the excise officers’ raid would not do. “I was out, walking,” he said, which was strictly the truth, but he followed it with a bold-faced lie. “I met no one, and no one talked to me.”

Fourteen

Though she had intended to walk back to Cliff House with Pam, her friend was exhausted and overwrought, so Anne summoned Sanderson from the livery stable and had him take Pam home. The day had already been long and difficult, but Anne had new ideas, and was going to pursue her own line of investigation without interference.

After asking the post-house owner a few questions, Anne approached a large house on the outskirts of St. Wyllow and took a visiting card out of her pocket. She strode up to the door and tapped. For her own consequence and reputation it would have been better to have a footman, tiger or even her driver, Sanderson, but she didn’t have time for formalities. A woman in her position was allowed some eccentricities away from the strict social correctness of London or Bath, and few would turn away Lady Anne Addison. She was too valuable a connection to make.

A butler opened the door, but she had a sense that he had only hastily donned his wig and jacket. He was quite possibly a groom or held some other position in the household at other times. He took her card after an appropriate greeting, and stammered an invitation to enter and wait.

In short order she was shown to a small sitting room on the first floor and joined by two women, Miss Julia Lovell and Lady Foakes, the wife of Baron Foakes of nearby St. Agnes, Anne learned, as the woman made sure to give her title and lineage. They established, in conversation, that Lady Foakes was Mr. Lovell’s sister and Miss Lovell’s chaperone, accompanying her to every soiree, ball, assembly, fete, breakfast and soon—plans made just since Captain St. James’s death—to Bath for the summer. As the conversational flow faded, Anne had to swiftly decide how to proceed.

But Miss Lovell took the initiative and introduced a topic. She leaned forward and said, her voice soft and breaking, “I would so like to extend my sympathies to Miss St. James. I was … I was very sad to hear of the captain’s death … uh, passing.”

Anne’s gaze flicked back and forth between the two women, and she noticed Lady Foakes’s eyes misting.

“He will truly be missed,” the lady added to her young charge’s expression of condolence.

“Indeed he will. I have known Captain St. James for many years, and will miss his joy of life, his sense of humor, a hundred things!” She felt the pain well up in her, for the specificity of what she would miss about St. James had not occurred to her until that moment.

Lady Foakes choked back a sob. With a hurried “excuse me, please,” she rose from the settee and rushed from the room.

That was exactly what Anne had wanted, a moment alone with Miss Lovell. She mastered her own emotion, and swiftly said, “Miss Lovell, I did wish a private audience with you.”

The young girl started, and sent a glance toward the door where Lady Foakes had disappeared. Hesitantly she said, “Why, my lady? We have never met.”

“No, but I know you as a friend of Marcus’s.”

The girl stayed silent, but blushed, from her neck up to her cheeks. In London society such an unconscious display of emotion would be condemned, but Anne blessed her involuntary reaction, for it told her much. Gently, Anne said, “I understand that in his way, St. James was courting you, and that marriage had been spoken of.”

“By my father and Lady Foakes, yes.”

“But not by you?”

“I … I did not think it would come about.”

“Why?”

The girl cast another glance toward the green and gold door. Then she fastened her gaze on Anne and leaned forward, whispering, “My chaperone and Captain St. James were … that is …” She trailed off and shook her head, unable to say the words. Her color heightened.

“They were entangled?”

She nodded. “My aunt … that is, Lady Foakes thinks I am silly and dim, but I’m not. I knew when they would slip off together. I think … thought it was disgusting.” She primmed her mouth into a thin line and straightened her back.

“And that was reason enough for you to think the proposal would not happen?”

The girl hesitated yet again, but then finally she said, “Nooo, I suppose it was not that I didn’t think he would ask me to marry him, though I was trying to discourage it,” she said, her speech becoming a little confused as she tangled herself up in words. “What I meant to say is, he may have asked, but I would not wish to marry a man who would …” She broke off and shook her head again.

Despite the girl’s reticence, Anne understood her. “Let me get this right: If Captain St. James had proposed, you would have refused him?”

With an expression of some relief, Julia Lovell said, “Yes.”

“My understanding is that there is another gentleman you prefer.”

The girl was silent, casting another glance to the door.

“Miss Lovell, I will be frank with you. I have heard that you and Mr. John Netherton have an understanding of a sort.”

Miss Lovell nodded, blushing.

“So,” Anne said, moving about on her uncomfortable straight-backed chair, “is the setback prohibiting marriage that he may not be financially able to wed for some time?”

Again, Julia Lovell nodded.

“Did Mr. Netherton know you would have refused Captain St. James?”

“I told him so, but he was still angry at the captain’s seeming to think he could just ask, and I’d fall into his lap.” The girl smiled, a sly, self-satisfied little smirk. “John is exceedingly jealous of my regard!”

And Miss Julia Lovell enjoyed the power that jealousy gave her, Anne thought, the power to torment an infatuated young man. It was not a pretty picture, the girl’s smirk, however, for most of her life Julia would be dominated by others, with little choice beyond what gown she would wear, or what party she would attend. At this moment in her life, choice over whom she would marry was the most control she would ever wield.

Anne sympathized with her predicament enough that she could not condemn her petty, but transitory, tyranny. “I can’t tell you what to do. I don’t know if your young man will be able to marry any time soon, and I don’t even know if it is right for you to wait for him. But I do know this,” she said, forcefully. “Do
anything
rather than marry where you have a strong disinclination. This is
your
life, Miss Lovell, the only one you will have before heaven, and you have a right to decide how you will lead it.”

Julia sighed and nodded. “I wish I could convince my father to let me follow my heart,” she said, in sentimental tones. She moved a ring around on her finger. “But I should not like to be an old maid.”

“Better an old maid than a miserable wife. Hold out, my dear, hold out. Don’t let anyone bully you. I am fortunate not to be trapped in a marriage that would have been a torment to me, but my current good fortune was at the expense of a tragedy that I must regret. My fiancé died before we were to wed, or I would be an unhappily married woman right now. Do
anything
rather than be forced into that sorry state.”

Anne was about to leave, but Lady Foakes came back that moment, in command of herself once again and explaining her tears by saying she had gotten a mote in her eye. She had ordered tea while out of the room, so Anne remained and they spoke desultorily of the neighborhood.

The name Puddicombe came up in conversation, and Anne remembered taking one of the officers to task at the regimental assembly for his insulting manner concerning Miss Harriet Puddicombe. It appeared that Julia and Harriet were friends.

“I feel so sorry for Harriet,” Julia said, putting down her cup with a clatter. “With a father like that! He’s brutish and cruel. He reminds her all the time that he spent a lot of money on a Season for her, in London, and yet she did not come home betrothed.”

“He expected perhaps an earl?” Anne said. Both of the other women looked a little shocked at Anne’s blunt remark, so she continued, “I’ve seen Harriet Puddicombe. She seems a very pretty girl, but most men will look for more than a pretty face and small dowry. Her father would be better off letting her go to Bath, where she can mingle and get to know a variety of young men.”

Julia and Lady Foakes exchanged glances.

“He wants to send her to Bath with me,” Julia said, stiffly, “now that it is being talked of. But she doesn’t want to go. There is someone in St. Wyllow that she plans to marry.”

“Does her father not approve?” Anne asked.

“He doesn’t know, but if he did, he would never approve. But Harriet will turn twenty-one in a few days, and then she and Johnny Quintrell can be married any time they like, without her father’s permission.”

“Johnny Quintrell?”

“Yes, the son of Mr. Joseph Quintrell, who owns the Barbary Ghost Inn. Mr. Puddicombe would think Johnny beneath his daughter, but Harriet longs to marry him. They are desperately in love.”

After a few more minutes of conversation, Anne said goodbye to the ladies and strolled into the heart of St. Wyllow, contemplating what she had learned. She wasn’t sure if John Netherton’s extreme jealousy toward Marcus, balanced by Miss Lovell’s apparent determination not to marry Marcus even if he asked, helped or hurt the case against John Netherton as murderer, but she also wasn’t sure she wanted to make that case. It was more important to her that Darkefell was
not
considered a suspect than it was to provide Mr. Twynam with alternatives.

Julia Lovell’s dilemma had caught her attention. Anne had been bullied into accepting the first proposal of marriage she ever received at the tender age of eighteen, and ever since, she had a horror of girls being forced to make such a momentous decision just to satisfy a father or mother’s ambition. Her own fortunate escape from what would have become a wretched marriage had been purchased by her fiancé’s death at the siege of Yorktown in the war with the colonies; it was certainly not a cheerful release, though she was nonetheless grateful to providence. She hoped that she would have had the fortitude to jilt Reginald before they married, but she very much feared that the girl she was at eighteen would not have had the courage to face the condemnation of society, nor the wrath of her mother.